Inequity and Integrity
by comptine
Summary: The first time Arthur Kirkland fell for Francis Bonnefoy was based on pure physical attraction. Every other corresponding time after that was over something much more romantic. And Arthur loathed him for this. FrUKAU


**Inequity and Integrity**

_1816, June 14th_

It is a quiet year for the most part. There is no war with the French to keep England's people occupied and indeed there is only time to gloat and congratulate themselves as if it were them who won the battle of Waterloo. These conversations happen over tea and crumpets and all inside because the beautiful weather has decided that this year the United Kingdom will not be enjoying the pleasure of it's company at all.

Rather, storms plagued the pleasant countryside of Hertfordshire and pounded the quaint fields and scared the sheep and horses until the stable boys were forced to stay within the stable to make sure the animals did not work themselves into frenzy. But this did not dampen most spirits for their fair nation was making leaps and bounds.

England is a land of strict morals, a stiff societal hierarchy and much to prim for its own good. However, at this time, it is also a land filled with invention and innovation, of emerging writers despite the failure of their gender's suffrage (and of these writers and the women behind them, a shift in social structure, subtle as it was). And to the west, a power engine roars across tracks for the first time, powerful and strong.

Arthur is much like the nation he heralds from, of a concise and sharp nature, a gentlemanliness about him that's bred into every word, movement and habit while above all else having a great appreciation for the beauty and mysteries of the world. He also adores the steam engine and yearns one of the first people to travel on it when the tracks reach to London's stations.

For now, at the age of nineteen and one of the most wanted bachelors in the country, Arthur would spend most of his time curled up in his family's library, avoiding every single young and fresh woman thrust at him by his father. He rather fancied never settling down and remaining an old hermit forever. Indeed, his father seemed to be the only one in the family not wild enough to find love and make household.

The new wife, Catherine, was a chatterer and annoying young woman with a large bosom which she had no shame in displaying for the pleasure of their slightly perverted father. Whenever she actually came downstairs and attempted to talk with the rest of the Kirkland brood, she usually sent to rest of the household into a stony and stressed mood. This never appeared to bother her as her talking never ceased.

Due to the fake wall connection library and parlour being right next to Arthur's favourite section of the library -which consisted of dragons, pictures of far off lands and old stories of armadas and perhaps just one or two romance novels tucked away- he was forced to listen to her drone on and on about some newcomer. A Frenchman from what he gathered, _and oh-so-dashing all the ladies of London are simply raving about him!_, and even just from that description and the flutter in the wife's voice, Arthur decided then and there that he would never like this Frenchman.

Following this resolution of the young Briton, he could hear a sudden quip from Ian (the poor man, it had been his turn to listen to the drawling and scratching stories of Catherine). "Well if the man's so well-off, we should try ta get him with Mirien no?"

Arthur expected his sister to snap back that she would not be used as a bargaining chip and yet there was nothing but the quiet and then, in the tiniest voices that Arthur could not believe had come from the mouth of his red-haired and almost violent sister. "Y-You mean me to marry _the_ Mr. Bonnefoy?"

Well this was bloody fantastic.

_1816, June 18th_

As Arthur had already decided to loathe the Frenchman, he had decided that the best way to do that would be not talk to him at all. Which in itself would be very simple. He would hide away in his nook of the library, have all his meals with the servants -he did rather fancy their company sometimes, there was an amusing set of German brothers and a lovely Hungarian who made the most delicious pies- and should he ever pass said Frenchman in the hallways he could merely turn his head and become very absorbed in the wallpaper of the manor for he suspected that wallpaper would carry more personality and charm than some frog.

Yes, simple enough. Arthur had to smile at his own conniving genius. There was only one flaw with Arthur's halfway brilliant plan; Francis Bonnefoy was also a bibliophile and insisted on seeing said library because Lord Kirkland's collection was quite well known around the south of England.

So there Arthur sat, rather unsuspecting of the voices coming down the hall, engrossed in his novel and only when the large double oak doors opened and he peeked over the balcony of the second tier, ready to yell at Catherine who had just bustled in before Arthur's heart seemed to lodge somewhere in his throat as he saw _him_.

The first time Arthur Kirkland fell for Francis Bonnefoy was based on pure physical attraction. Which you can hardly blame him for, they were both good-looking men with Arthur's rougher hair and higher, more defined cheekbones against the silken hair but softer skin of the Frenchman. Arthur's eyes were a striking emerald while the cobalt of the Frenchman's was bold and warm.

Arthur's heart pounded and he would've hid at that very moment, slipping through the fake wall, however from his loose grip, the book fell and landed right next to Francis' foot. The man bent down, elegant fingers picking up the fallen novel, brushing his hands over the soft cover before looking up.

Suspecting he looked rather gormless staring down, mouth a little open and eyes wide, Arthur cleared his throat and dusted off his pants. Before he could introduce himself, Catherine was quite happy to take that right from him with a sharp and jeering tone.

"Ah, it appears we've stumbled upon the young master of the house," she said, folding her arms over her chest, pouting a little at the Englishman, "won't you come down and grace us with your presence Arthur dearest?" His cheeks flushed immediately. He hated Catherine and her snide tones… and all because he had rejected her affections when she first entered the house, hoping to catch a younger Kirkland instead of the old man.

Before he could retort or do anything that would make his cheeks flush less, there was a laugh from the Frenchman. "I would not dare impose on Mr. Kirkland, especially not when 'e is reading such a good novel." Carefully, moving past the stock-still wife, Francis started up the stairs.

Stopping in front of the still speechless Brit, he held out the novel and Arthur, in that moment realised what he had been reading. His heart pounded, what would Francis think of him? Reading such dribble, a romance… He swallowed; understanding that the Frenchman's use of the terms 'good novel' had only been used in jest-

"It is one of my favourites as well." Francis' voice was suddenly much too close to his ear and he felt his cheeks burn a shade close to that of a fresh and ripe cherry. "Emma is quite the character, I love ze way she plays matchmaker to avoid her own heart."

"A-Ah yes," was all he could manage before taking the book and hastily turning away and hurrying off. His heart thudded like a military drum, his cheeks felt like the sun and all he could think about was Francis even as he hid away in his room.

What was this?

He glanced down at the book pressed hard against his thrumming pulse and swallowed. Had Emma put two people together successfully? From beyond the pages she was still fulfilling her role? Or was he just being an idiot? He fell back on his bed, putting the book on his forehead and letting his arms flop to his sides.

That would have to be a question for another time.

_1816, June 20th_

In yet another attempt to make Arthur pick a bride, give Mirien more time with Francis (as the Frenchman appeared to avoid her at all costs) his father hosted a ball. The ostentatious display of jewels and riches had become somewhat taboo in this time and now the bright diamonds and deep rubies had to be well hidden, barely there, so they would be noticed.

Curled into ringlets, hanging from pale neck and embroidered into the soft and demure dresses, the tiny gems caught the light of the chandlers hanging in the ballroom, creating tiny fairies of dazzling light all around the room. The main floor had been cleared for dancers who were slowly moving around each other with careful and defined steps. It was almost elegant in its understated feel, ever movement, ever placed and held hand meaning something different. One had to gather everything they knew about a potential spouse from the way they carried themselves in a simple and short dance.

Which is why Arthur was avoiding them like the Black Death. If he didn't dance, people would no nothing about him. They would not know that he did indeed romance as well as fantasy. They would not know that he loved riding bareback upon Stygian through the rivers as fast as he could to feel the water splash up. They would not find out that he actually had quite the knowledge of the plants and flowers in the surrounding areas, having learnt their language from a Dutchman once upon a spring long passed.

All they would know is that Arthur Kirkland enjoyed being alone and enjoyed his wine even more; something he was completely fine with them believing. More chance of them leaving him alone. The double-doors that lead to the Kirkland estate and a garden much closer were open, inviting in the warm summer air as it was not raining.

Arthur had found this to be the perfect place to hide just out of sight. He leaned against the wall house, quite content there, humming along the elegant music, occasionally peeking inside just to make sure he wasn't being hunted for, but Ian was occupied with a missionary from India, James had already been sent to bed while Mirien… well truth be told his sister looked nothing short of murderous. That was easily explained though by the mysterious lack of another person.

He was sure he had seen Francis at the beginning of the party but since then Arthur had not spotted head or tail of the man. Perhaps he was just blending in too well with the crowd or perhaps he was avoiding Mirien, a trend Arthur had realised ever since Francis had come to stay with them. His sister's company just did not appeal to Francis.

"A-Ah Kirkland?" a breathless said behind him followed by a hand on his shoulder that nearly made him jump out of his skin. Instead he merely whirled around (managing to not drop his wine in a feat of God) and stared wide-eyed at the man he had just been searching for.

Francis, once having caught Arthur's attention, dipped down to lean against the side of the house out-of-sight, letting out a long breath. "I just climbed down from ze second floor. Your sister is quite tenacious." He said, offering a weak smile. Arthur's knees may have wobbled the tiniest of bits.

As a response, since his words were not working, Arthur held out the glass of wine, which Francis gladly took, swallowing quietly, letting out a satisfied sigh. "_Merci beaucoup_ Monsieur Kirkland." He said, sitting back up and peering next to Arthur's head into the dancers inside, "It looks rather dull, _non_?"

"No!" Arthur's words were back, fiery and passionate "Look how stunning they are… It's so intimate, the looks, the touches…" his finger pressed against the glass, "See how that one in the green takes his hand? She holds it tight and his rests a little lower on her back. Clearly they are interested in each other!"

The Frenchman placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder to balance himself as he leaned forward, chest brushing his shoulder as the long nose pressed against the glass. "Ah…." He said after a while of watching the dancers, smiling slightly, "Per'aps you are right. I just meant ze surface, it is a very bland dance. 'ave you ever 'eard of ze waltz Kirkland?"

His mind flashed to the kitchens. Where the Hungarian would tell him stories of balls back in her home country where she would be dancing in the arms of a tall and dashing duke of some sort. She was a princess in Arthur's imagination and sometimes when she had him in her lap, braiding tiny flowers into the sandy hair, the loud silver-haired man would sweep her away from Arthur, pulling her into a dance that was unlike anything he had seen.

Close, loving as the Prussian would ramble on about the Hungarian's man back on the mainland. To the Hungarian he seemed to be a prince; to the Prussian, he appeared to be a man who never truly existed. Arthur wondered if perhaps it was someone they had both made up; this brunet with the glasses and the piano and agreed to believe he was only alive in their dreams, for whenever Arthur inquired about his name, they would both grow oddly quiet.

But the dance in his memories was beautiful and indeed much more exciting than the slow and formal one going on inside the mansion. So he nodded. "It's… an interesting one," he said, "I never learnt it, my father thinks it's an evil thing."

"Then permit me to show you otherwise," was the offer along with an outstretched hand.

Arthur hesitated, thinking to the Hungarian, how happy she looked in the arms of the Prussian, how beautiful… His fingers traced down the Frenchman's to his palm. One of the few privileges of a male tutour was that he at least vaguely knew how a woman should stand in a dance and since he was the smaller one, it was automatically assumed he was the female-counterpart. He did not mind; he would need to be led in this foreign dance.

He felt his free hand led to the Frenchman's shoulder while Francis' hands rested in his and on his as he started to hum quietly, drawing them closer, almost an embrace while he sang. It was a three beat pattern; simple, as Francis was only one voice but Arthur could feel it and learn after only a few moments.

They relaxed into the intimacy of the position on the pretence of hiding from the other guests but at the most primal of levels, it was all on pure attraction. The way Francis' hand slipped lower with each step and the way that Arthur's hand would grip tighter as they twirled, neither leading and both following.

This would mark the second time that Arthur fell in love and he would attempt to place the source of the blame on the wine Arthur's father had flowing quite freely that night, the warm and dangerous summer air and the first clear sky that had been had for weeks on end. Yes, these were the only things at fault not anything silly like feelings or attraction. Just the weather.

Or so Arthur tried to tell himself.

_1816, June 22th_

Now Arthur was doing his utmost to avoid Francis. Which wasn't working well at all. The Frenchman seemed to be following him wherever he hid -not that he was hiding too hard, but really. The library, the sitting rooms, the attic and even the office his father had for him that he never used, Francis always seemed to find some reason to be there.

Arthur was starting not to mind Francis' company and that scared him more than the glares his sister was starting to send him more frequently. Was he actually falling for some snobbish, arrogant, good-looking, well-read… The Brit's thoughts trailed off rather blissfully as he continued to saddle up his young stallion, keen on leaving for a ride in the countryside to get himself far away from the Frenchman.

He was not shaken from the thoughts until he heard the sound of snapping fingers and Francis' face was two inches in front of his, grinning knowingly. Yelping and stumbling backward into the edge of the horse' stall, Arthur looked up as Francis laughed, a few of the horses in the stable moving and whinnying at the noise.

Picking himself up with some of his dignity in tact, Arthur attempted to glare at the Frenchman. "What do you want?" he snapped, feeling the skin around his collar get hot with a pink flush and he quickly lifted his hand to rub at the blush, "It's rather impolite to sneak up on someone unannounced."

"If I 'ad announced that I was going to sneak up on you," Francis said, walking over to him, a hand resting on the horse's dark back, "Then it wouldn't 'ave been much of a surprise now would it?"

Unable to think up a very legitimate argument, Arthur merely turned away and took the reins from a small hook, walking to his steed's mouth, coaxing the piece into the wide mouth before running soft hands down his mane, resting at the front of the saddle, gripping it and heaving himself up.

Quickly backing out of the stall, Francis waiting for Arthur to let the horse out of the cramped space before grabbing the front of the reins, looking up at Arthur. "If I 'ave said something that 'as offended you I must apologise," he said while Arthur rolled his eyes, "Or per'aps that dance was a little too much for you?"

"Of course it wasn't!" Arthur snapped at him, shaking his head, "And you've said nothing to offend me, I merely think you should be spending more time with my sister."

Francis didn't let go on the reins and Arthur glowered. "I do not wish to spend more time with Lady Mirien, charming as she is." He sighed, "I wish to spend more time with Arthur, truth me told I find you quite interesting."

Staring down at him, Arthur allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. "Alright then. We'll go for a ride shall we?"

The Frenchman nodding quickly, going about the stable and saddling his own horse while Arthur sat atop Stygian, leading him outside, waiting patiently for the other rider, eyes fixed on the darkening sky. Perhaps the looming skies would deter Francis. "It looks like it might rain."

"A little rain never 'urt anyone." Francis supplied at his right, the small white mare resting beside the Englishman's larger horse, feet pawing restlessly at the ground. "Shall we go? I do not know the land around 'ere very well."

Nodding and clicking his tongue along with a light nudge of his heels, Arthur led the way west. They picked through neighbouring fields at a slow walk, the talk between them polite but interested. They spoke of books, of political matters here and across the sea, latest fashions and the wonders of India. Francis wished to go there one day and Arthur said he'd gladly accompany him, wanting to see the spice markets for himself.

They dipped down into a small river, allowing the horses to drink just as the coming storm finally let loose, raining down on them. Arthur lifted a hand, turning Stygian back to the small hill, urging him into a trot. A moment later, Francis slunk by at a lazy canter, grinning as he reached the crest of the hill before Arthur did.

Arthur joined him, scowling when the Frenchman's pace did not slow and, so as not be left behind, the Brit nudged Stygian into a quick canter, just barely overtaking Francis. But it was this goading that Francis was waiting for. In a flash he spurred his own white horse into a pounding gallop and Arthur, unable to himself, rushed after her, laying low and close to his steed's neck.

A laugh caught on the wind and hit Arthur and he realised that not only Francis was laughing, but he himself was doing the same as he flew past Francis, pushing Stygian to his limits. Francis was quick to limit the distance between them practically neck-to-neck to the Englishman.

Arthur chanced a glance at the Frenchman through the increasing rain.

The third time Arthur fell for Mr. Bonnefoy, he barely noticed. It was a merely passing feeling but one that warmed his very soul. There, in the rain, laughing and riding as fast as the hooves and the slippery ground would allow, he felt as though nothing could touch him. All that matter was the rain, the surging horse beside him and the brilliant smile Francis was giving him.

This only made the chase all the sweeter and when they finally arrived back at the stable sopping wet and still laughing, Arthur slowly got off Stygian, pulling off the saddle and resting it on the side of the stall. As he turned to face Francis, he was surprised to find his lips occupied by the Frenchman's.

His shock rolled into a quiet contentment as he clutched at the Frenchman's shirt, trying to bring them closer but Francis was pulling away as quick as he'd come. "_Merci pour la chevauchée_." And he slipped out of the stable and hurried towards the house, jacket over his head, protecting him from the rain.

_1816, June 29th_

The final day of Francis' visit was murky, with sullen clouds of grey and a half-hearted rain that only splattered against the tall windows of the Kirkland manor. To say the outside echoed Arthur's feelings would not be an adequate comparison. If Arthur felt anything like the clouds he would be having moments of weeping which he was obviously not going to do.

He had decided that Francis had merely been an infatuation. A summer love, that was it, nothing more. No great romance that would be chronicled and lay to rest among the other volumes in his library. He sat down on the steps of the ladder used to reach the loftiest of books in the collection, trying to read something about armadas and other things but he couldn't concentrated as the words kept blurring together and his mind would wander.

Thunder rumbled outside and he glanced up to see the door of the library open and Francis peek inside, a smile spreading across his lips. "I knew I'd find you 'iding somewhere." He strode towards Arthur's ladder while the Briton shakily got to his feet for a moment before sitting back down, utterly putout.

"What is wrong?" Francis asked from the bottom of the steps, peering up at the sulking Arthur, his foot cautious on the first step. "I thought you would at least come to say goodbye…"

Arthur sighed. "Would you even want me to say goodbye?" he asked sourly, "You made our opinion of me rather clear in the stables."

The Frenchman took another step towards him, one hand clutch the rungs, the other resting on the selves of books, keeping his steady. "It was an accident. I did not mean to do that to you." He murmured, "It just 'appened and I-"

"I liked it." Arthur said rather bluntly.

The windows shook a little as an thunderous peal ripped through the air and Francis winced a little, climbing up to more stairs, his face now at Arthur's feet. He looked up nervously while Arthur attempted to become very interested with the cover of his book. It wasn't that hard, and he let his pile trace over the pale gold leaves engrained into the soft cloth of the cover.

Francis cleared his throat. "You did?"

"Very much so," Arthur said, continuing the conversation as if it were merely about the weather while his clear embarrassment was given away by the flush on his neck. "It was enjoyable and I wished we could've done it again instead of your hiding away from me like a scared child."

Now level with Arthur, Francis quirked his head. "You did?"

"Yes."

"Then you would not object if I did it again?"

Arthur smiled, meeting his blue eyes. "Not in the slightest."

He leaned forward slightly, but Francis' lips instead found his cheek and he blinked. The Frenchman beamed at him brightly, hurrying back down the ladder. Arthur, cheeks aflame and almost shaking with anger, followed after him. However, by the time he was at the bottom of the steps, Francis was at the doors, pulling them open. Lightening flashed across the floor.

"Wait!" Arthur called, "What are that for?"

Francis looked back and smiled warmly at him and Arthur, despite himself, smiled back. In that moment, Arthur Kirkland fell for Francis Bonnefoy for a fourth time over a stupid smile and a promise. He knew it was silly, to pine for someone like Francis and a very small part of him, the one that secretly enjoyed _Emma_ and the romances was telling him otherwise and as Francis uttered his small promise. "Because I need something to bring me back," he could close his eyes and shake his head.

What a stupid thing, this romance was.

And how he adored it.


End file.
